All Roads
by Anubis Ankh
Summary: Sometimes, things go your way, but still don't happen like you think they should. It was moments like these that made Benny grateful that things had not all gone according to plan. You gambled, you rigged the odds, and you measured the stacks—but sometimes, you just have to throw a wildcard in and see what happens.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Not my usual flavor. I had this idea bouncing around in my head for awhile, and finally wrote it. Set in Fallout: New Vegas. If you haven't played, I highly recommend it. Probably not my finest work, but writing it made me feel better about the game.**

**Goddamnit.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own.**

**Please review!**

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Her first clear memory of the world was framed by the doorway to Doc Mitchell's house. The sun beat down on the hard, packed earth. The brightness blinded her, and when it cleared, still left her in a daze. A tumbleweed rolled past, as though to compliment the assembly of tiny, rough and weather-worn houses scattered just meters away. She had stumbled out the door, and made it to the bottom of the hill, still rather disoriented. This was all so sudden, so new. If she had ever set foot in Goodsprings before, she had no recollection of it: her memory was gone.

She didn't remember what she looked like until Doc Mitchell showed her a mirror. She had pulled her hair back for a better look: there was a scar on her forehead, a tiny slit that was expertly sewn up. She was surprised to see her eyes, which were a dull, grayish blue. Thinking back months later, she finally knew what to compare them to: the color of water in a tin-can under the Mojave sun. Her skin was a burnt red, as are so many others who are fair-skinned in the desert. Looking into that mirror, trying to make sense of that face framed by messy black hair, she had felt as though she was gazing into the soul of a stranger.

No, that wasn't right. Whoever Courier Six used to be was dead, and it was simply a matter of a stranger taking up residence in the leftover husk. Who that stranger was had yet to be determined.

Sunny Smiles gave her a lesson in survival, something that every Wastelander should have been well-versed in by the age of six, but which she was starting afresh. The Varmint Rifle Sunny gifted her felt familiar in her hands, but until she gave the Courier a little tutorial, the poor girl wasn't quite able to figure out how to fire it. Using geckos for target practice quickly got her back into the swing of things. Trudy was kind enough to give her a few pointers on where the men who had left her might have gone.

She doesn't remember her mother, but she's certain that if she had a memory to compare to, she would have been like Trudy—warm and welcoming, with a bit of that southwestern accent that immediately makes made her feel at home. Easy Pete was borderline monosyllabic in the face of interrogation, but he had one thing right: whoever had shot her was bad news. She was lucky to be alive.

People were killed in the Wasteland all the time. They were dismembered, disemboweled, beheaded, poisoned by Cazadores, torn apart by Nightstalkers and Deathclaws, pincushioned by all manner of sharp and pointy objects, and—yes—shot. She knew she was nobody special. In fact, given that she couldn't even remember her own name, she readily accepted she _was_ nobody. Simply Courier Six. The name, which was now the root of her identity, pointed to a singular problem: She was a courier. She had a package, and she lost it. Not only that, the man who shot her didn't have the grace to kill her properly.

She doesn't know what kind of person she was before she took a bullet to the brain, but she often suspects it wasn't the kind to simply let it go. She was robbed of both her memory and her package, and if she couldn't get one back, she was going to at least recover the other.

So she set off into the wild, wild Wasteland.

This is her story. But it won't start with the beginning. Instead, just as she was dumped in the middle of nowhere, you're going to start in the middle of her story.

Welcome to New Vegas, baby.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own.**

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Benny's goal was simple: he wanted control of New Vegas.

When he was playing high-stakes where the odds were stacked against him, it didn't behoove him to play fair. He was more than willing to dirty his hands if it meant rigging the game in his favor. It was why he hadn't hesitated to kill the kid back in Goodsprings. It was just her bad luck that she happened to be the courier carrying the real deal.

He thought she was dead. He didn't lose a night's sleep over it.

He only had the vaguest idea that he was wrong when reports started coming in from the Wasteland. They were small things at first, and they began on the fringe of the desert, far away from his cozy place on the Strip. But the stories gradually grew crazier and closer to home; reports of a broad fitting her description had gutted the Deathclaws in Sloan, massacred the criminal residents of the NCR correctional facility, removed the mutants from Black Mountain, and—more recently—slaughtered the Van Graffs in Freeside. That was practically in his backyard.

Now he was nervous. But it was only when one of his snitches approached to whisper into his ear that someone had been seen entering the Lucky 38 that he finally started feeling the first flutters of panic in his chest. It was nearly six months since he'd put the bitch in her grave, and he was starting to think that perhaps he really hadn't done the job right.

The next day, she walked into the Tops.

He saw her before she saw him, but he didn't realize it was her at first. He was on the other side of the casino hall when he saw a bedraggled, filthy, and half-starved woman walk in. It wasn't exactly unusual for a Wastelander to high-roll it in Freeside and then come in to the Strip just to lose it all, but what caught his attention was the fact that she had a dog at her side. From a distance, it was hard to tell, but it looked as though its brain was floating in a case strapped to its head.

He leaned against the railing and took a drag, letting his eyes close. He'd seen stranger things walk through his door.

When he opened his eyes, one of his bodyguards had come to intercept her. He frowned and removed his cigarette, as the woman leaned over to grab the dog's tail; the part-machine oddity was snarling at the bodyguard, and though he couldn't make out what she was saying, he got the impression she was trying to explain something. The bodyguard removed his glasses and gave her a dubious look, as though he didn't believe her story. And then he reached up and removed his hat.

The dog immediately sat, and looked incredibly hopeful, as though he thought the hat might be tossed to him for a proper mauling.

The bodyguard put the hat back on. The dog was up again, teeth bared.

Hat off. Dog sat.

The man chuckled, and swept his hat back on.

"He'll have to deal with it, doll," he heard the bodyguard say. "Just don't let him get too close to Mr. Benny."

Benny looked away, lifted the cigarette to his mouth, and inhaled.

When he turned around again, it was because someone was tapping his shoulder. For a moment, he didn't understand what she thought she was doing—and then he saw the scar on her forehead, and the cigarette fell from his lips.

It was no surprise that he hadn't recognized her. Last he saw her, she had been wearing mercenary gear and had, at the very least, looked put together. Now she looked wild, wearing bloody fiend armor and animal skins that she had probably carved up herself. She was streaked in filth, and bore only a passing resemblance to the girl he'd shot half a year ago.

At that moment, he felt fear.

And then, when she looked him up and down, with a wild gleam in her eye, he felt a thrill ripple through him.

Three hours later, he was lying in bed with her, still smoking, and planning his next move. When he arrived at his suite after sending her up, he discovered that his bathroom had been turned into a disaster area and ought to be cordoned off as a biohazard, but the blood and mud caking her from head to toe had at least been scrubbed free. It gave him a good look at her: she was a pretty thing, but had a glint in her eyes that hadn't been there before. The wasteland had changed her, and from what he'd heard, not for the better.

She was a freak in the sack. She bucked, she threw him off, clawed at his back, and bit at his neck and anything else she could get her teeth in. His shoulders still stung, and he knew there were going to be welts. They had wrestled for dominance, and she was like a wildcat underneath him—not trying to get away, but instead trying to flip him and take control. He'd had to pin her down in order to fuck her properly. It was messy and rough, and it was the best turn he'd ever had. She'd shaken her charlies for him, and eventually rolled them over, dug her heels into his sides, and rode him until they were both insensate.

The entire time, she hadn't said a single intelligible word.

When they were done, she bent over him, panting from exertion. Then she reached for his arms, and pinned them over his head.

She had stared at him silently, and he had the impression she was waiting for him to speak.

"Something wrong, pussycat?" he breathed.

She glared at him, and then leaned over the bed—

He snaked out an arm to stop her, but she was too quick, and a moment later, felt the tip of his own pistol pressing against his forehead. He had never felt such abject terror in his life, but here he had a naked woman pinning him down, and she looked like she was about to blow his brains out. He felt his heart thumping in his chest, and wondered if this was how he was about to go.

And then she said, "Answers."

He talked. She listened.

He explained his scheme to take over New Vegas. She put the gun away.

She was a nutso bitch. Benny had realized this from the start, but it was only then that he realized just how crazy she was. She had to be, to proposition the guy who shot her, but he hadn't realized the depth. He couldn't say he'd known her former self with any degree of certainty, but she had seemed normal.

The sex had definitely been worth it, in his opinion.

Now she was asleep, and wasn't planning on sticking around when she woke up. He carefully began extracting himself from her grip. It wasn't easy, with both arms wrapped tightly around his ribs, but he managed to wriggle out. She mumbled something, and he froze; she then rolled over, grabbing the pillow and pulling it into a death grip, and burying her face in it. He waited until he was certain she was still asleep, and then slid off the bed.

Her arrival changed everything. The crazy chick had exchanged words with House, and House knew he had the Platinum Chip. Benny knew that sending in the Courier to retrieve it was House playing nice; now that she had clearly failed to get it back for him, the kid gloves would be coming off, and House would come down on him with an iron fist. Hard. Benny wasn't going to wait around for him to do that.

He dressed, scrounged around for some paper and a pen, grabbed every Stealth Boy he owned, and fled the Tops.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own.**

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He had known she would come. That was a given. Offered the chance to waltz into the Legion's camp, all past misdeeds forgiven, and with him dangled as the prize? How could she resist?

Pussycat walked into Caesar's tent as though she owned it. The Legion didn't like fiends, and she was dressed head to toe like she'd been born and raised in the South Vegas ruins. Pure fiend territory. She didn't even glance at him, which Benny thought was cold—the least the gal could do was acknowledge he was there. He wasn't in the best of shape at the moment, not with the nice black eye and bruises he had going, but the broad could have at least said hello. Even if he wasn't allowed to talk back.

It was laughable how thoroughly unprepared Baldie was for dealing with her.

"A man nearly kills you, and you track him across the breadth of the Mojave?"

_And screw his brains out,_ Benny added silently.

She didn't answer him immediately. Since they had last knocked socks, Benny had come to the realization that she wasn't a talker. Her lips were pressed tightly together, and she looked irritated that Baldie was expecting a verbalized answer. Benny could see how she might interpret it as being rhetorical; and when it was clear that it was not, why she might view it as a question that didn't need to be answered. Of course it was obvious that, yes, she was going to chase him across the fucking desert! She was here, wasn't she?

Vulpes Inculta crossed the distance between and hissed into her ear, loud enough for the tent to hear, "When Caesar asks you a question, he expects you to answer him promptly."

The Courier snapped at him. The tent jumped; she had actually bitten at the air just inches away from the man's face, and if she'd been any closer, might have taken his ear off. It took all of Benny's willpower not to burst into laughter—they looked so shocked!—but he didn't fancy another beating. He could have warned them that she wasn't quite right in the head. Benny wondered if this was his fault; perhaps his bullet really had scrambled her egg.

With as much venom as she could pour into a single word, she uttered, "Yes."

It was easy to see that she and Baldie were like two Bighorner Bulls. They were locking horns, and Benny wasn't even sure if Baldie had a chance of winning this one. Caesar liked to hear himself talk, and his nutso courier liked to keep her mouth shut. It would be a great arrangement if Baldie didn't insist on having a fucking echo chamber. Benny had to admit he had a mouth on him, but he could still dig the quiet chicks. Baldie took silence for insubordination.

"Talk to Benny on your way out," Baldie said, sitting back in his throne. He seemed rather self-satisfied. The courier was silent. "He knows I'm going to let you decide how he dies. Maybe you want to remind him."

Benny grimaced. Yes, there was that little detail. She hadn't killed him back at the Tops, but with this opportunity handed to her, trussed on a golden platter, what was she going to do? Turn it down? Not bloody likely.

But she didn't talk to him. Instead, she left without another word. He shouldn't have been surprised, really. She wasn't much for conversation, and given the sorry state he was in, he wasn't even sure she would find the situation worth gloating over. Baldie might, but not her.

She hadn't been gone for more than a minute before Vulpes Inculta finally found the courage to speak:

"She's a degenerate."

Benny thought that just about summed her up.

He wondered if she was going to destroy the bunker like Baldie wanted. He wished she had come to him first so that he could at least persuade her otherwise. She generally didn't seem to be one for following orders, but if she didn't know the value of what was under the weather station, she might have no problem bringing it down. Possibly just to spite House.

He didn't know how long she had been gone, but when the ground shook, he feared the worst.

When she returned, she was missing her devil-curled horned helm. There were black smears across her face, and Benny guessed that whatever was down there had tried to blast her to bits. It clearly hadn't succeeded. It was almost beautiful, really, how unstoppable she seemed; Benny suspected that she'd react just the same if she had an arm or a leg blown off. Hell, she'd had her brains blasted and that hadn't stopped her. She took a licking and kept on ticking.

Her conversation with Baldie was in low tones, too soft for him to hear, but Benny got the impression that high-and-mighty on his throne was pleased.

And then at long last, she approached him.

"Go ahead and laugh, baby," Benny said, as she bent down on her haunches so that they were face to face. "I ain't blind to the humor in this situation."

She pressed her lips together, and Benny had the idea that she might be thinking.

"Don't tell me you didn't take your own sweet time down in that bunker planning how to off me, baby. Speaking of which," Benny said, leaning forward and lowering his voice for just her ears, "mind telling me what was down there?"

She licked her lips. "Securitrons," she said. And then she smiled, and it was a real smile, like the one she had after he answered all her questions at the Tops. "Hundreds of them. All upgraded."

"So all this time, the old man had an entire army on lay-away?" Benny breathed. "Clever player."

It was a shame he'd never get to use them. He had hoped that if he had access to the terminals down in the bunker, he'd have been able to patch Yes-Man in and reprogram them. That dream was in ashes now, but he was relieved about one thing: pussycat hadn't destroyed them. Baldie wanted the place blown sky-high, and she had clearly lied to his face. He could only imagine the look on Baldie's face when all those securitrons came pouring out on judgment day. He'd pay to have that bronzed!

He was snapped out of his thoughts when she said, "Caesar says I get to decide how you die."

"You don't beat around the bush, do you?" Benny grimaced. "Which way are you leaning, baby?"

Her expression was one of curiosity, like a small child poking a dead bloatfly with a stick. "What if I helped you escape?"

Benny thought his heart might leap out the back of his throat—was she serious?

"Baby, I know I been bad, but it's cruel to jerk me around like this…"

"Crucifixion, then." She stood up.

He was already resigned to the fact that in all likelihood, he wasn't getting out of this shindig alive. But he'd at least been hoping for a quick death, and that meant as far as going went, being crucified wasn't at the top of his list.

"Don't do that, baby, not crucifixion," he pleaded. She didn't look the least bit moved, and he wondered if this was some kind of twisted justice—that he shot her and fucked her brain up so bad that she couldn't spare the human decency to just kill him quickly. "I could be up there for days, with those twisted creeps laughing and pointing!"

She considered him for a moment, and then leaned over. She stuck a hand in his jacket pocket, where the butt of his beloved pistol was just barely visible. The Legion hadn't cared that he still had a pistol on him—he had no bullets, and they had no use for such a low-caliber weapon. She pulled it out, snapped out the magazine to check for ammo, and then stuck it in her pocket. She gave him a last once-over, and then turned to the guard.

"I meant what I said."

The Praetorian gave her a blank look, not quite following her intention.

"Crucify him."

"You sick, vindictive fuck," Benny spat.

"It's no less than what you deserve."

There was zero inflection to her voice, but it didn't matter. The point had been made. Not another word needed to be said—it couldn't be any clearer who had lost. The question, Benny thought bitterly, as he was hauled to his feet, was who had _won._ Her, or Baldie? Sure, she had lied to his face, but the Legion still got the joy of putting him up on a stick.

He struggled, hoping they might turn on him; there was no way he could escape, but if they lost their temper, they might just dash his brains in for him. He cursed and taunted them as they dragged him out of the tent and across the camp, and past the doors that led to the crosses overlooking the gates below. One of them threatened to cut out his tongue, but Pussycat grabbed the man's hand before he could reach for his machete.

"No," she admonished, as though she were scolding a naughty dog. The irony was that Rex was sitting at her heels, perfectly well behaved, and had fixed the legionnaire with an equally stern look.

Benny kicked him. The Praetorian's fist met with his face. He tasted blood, and spat it on the man's armor.

"Come on!" he sneered, still dragging his feet in the dirt while they dragged him to the cross. "If that's how you punch, it's no wonder the NCR's been kicking your ass up and down the Mo—"

The Praetorian's fist raised for another blow.

"I said _no!_"

The Praetorian's fist stopped inches away from Benny's face. Benny stared at her.

"At least let me cut out his tongue!" the Praetorian demanded.

His pussycat walked up to the man with a dangerous sway, and slowly placed her hand on his arm. And then abruptly tightened her grip, causing the man to hiss as her nails dug into his flesh.

"I don't like repeating myself," she said softly.

The Legionnaires got the hint. Benny looked at her in disbelief as they hauled him the last few meters to the nearest cross, and forced him back to his knees.

"Come on, Pussycat," he begged. "Anything but this!"

She watched with almost silent indifference as they strapped his arms and legs in place. He wondered if he could bite his tongue out—drowning in his own blood would surely be faster than this!

"Go away."

"I beg your pardon?" The man who had tortured him earlier—Lucius, Benny thought his name might be—did not look happy at being given orders. But she was an esteemed guest of Caesar's, and that meant that for now, he had to be polite to her. Even if she was a woman.

"You did your job. Leave."

The Praetorians all exchanged looks, as though they weren't quite sure what to do. A few scuffed the ground at their feet and turned to Lucius, not sure how to handle this. Normally, Benny was sure, such rudeness would have earned her a beating to teach her place. But she bore the Mark of Caesar and, at least in regards to Benny's execution, they _were_ supposed to obey.

He was glad he was able to find some perverse, twisted enjoyment in their discomfiture.

And then Lucius turned to leave. The rest followed. She waited until they had gone, and then moved to stand in front of him.

"Comfortable?" She asked airily.

"I have nothing to say to you," Benny replied sullenly.

She reached into her pocket, withdrawing Maria. There was a _ka-chunk_ as she replaced the magazine, and removed the safety. She backed up several feet, squared herself, and pointed Maria at him.

"That's fine," she said. "Don't move."

He didn't have time to crack a response. Her finger twitched; the gun fired, and he registered the sharp, sudden pain of the bullet entering his skull.

~o~O~o~

He woke up dizzy and disoriented. His vision was fuzzy, and his tongue felt thick, like he hadn't had a drink in days. He twitched his fingers, feeling the mattress underneath his body, and dug them in as though to hold on for dear life. The room was swaying around him, but he was finally able to vaguely make out where he was. Ceiling fans swinging overhead, plaster ceiling, and sunlight streaming in through curtains…

He squinted. He could make out the faint haze of the world outside through the cracked windows—old rundown buildings, a windmill, bighorners moseying about…

_Goodsprings?_

He jerked when something crumpled under his head, like the crackle of paper, and he groaned when he turned his head too quickly. There was a chair by his bed, and there was someone sitting in it. When his vision finally righted itself, he realized who it was.

"I'm in hell, aren't I," he wheezed.

Pussycat didn't answer, but she looked pleased.

"You shot me," he muttered, gazing at her with something akin to wonder and disbelief. He reached behind his head and removed the piece of paper tucked under it; a moment to clear his blurry vision, and he realized it was the letter he'd written her before scramming. He let it drop to the bed, where it slid off and fell to the floor. "You crucified me and shot me in the head…"

She smiled.

"I'm not saying I didn't deserve it, Pussycat," Benny said, turning his head so that he was staring at the ceiling again, "but you didn't have to make a big production out of it."

"You keep calling me that."

"What?" His brain worked to try and figure out what she was referring to. He squinted at her. "…Pussycat?"

"My name is Six."

He turned to look at her again.

"Six," he repeated.

"Courier Six."

He frowned, not sure if she was joking. Come to think of it—he'd shot her, screwed her, made her chase him halfway across the desert and then some, and he had never thought to ask her name. Somehow, thinking of her as Pussycat had simply stuck. Courier Six couldn't be her real name. Then again, if his bullet had thrown her for a loop—

"You don't remember your name, do you?" he muttered.

"Do you?"

"Of course," he croaked. "Benny."

She gave him a silent stare. He wondered if he was supposed to feel sorry for her, but all he could think about was the fact that if shooting her in the head had resulted in this, what was a bullet in the brain going to do to _him?_

She reached down and that was when he realized her cyber-dog was lying at her feet. She stroked his ears, never taking her eyes off of Benny. The dog let out a low whine.

"What happens now?" he whispered.

"Well," she said, straightening, "you have two choices."

"Sing, baby. You got a captive audience."

He reached out an arm and fumbled for the nightstand, where there was a glass of water—at least, he _hoped_ it was water—and she pushed it into his reach. He slowly sat up, his vision blackening for a moment, and then lifted the glass to his parched lips.

"You can decide to walk away," she said.

He lowered the glass and gave her a hopeful look. "You mean it, Pussycat?"

"If you do…" She reached into her pocket and pulled out a lighter. It looked familiar to him, and for a moment, he couldn't place it—and then he realized it was his. The engraved lighter the Khans had nicked off him. "I'll shove this up your ass."

"Baby, you're not serious."

"Jessup sends his love."

"I should have put two holes in your head, Pussycat," Benny said, wetting his lips on the glass before drinking it. "Maybe that would have keep you down."

"I do so love symmetry," she remarked.

"Alright," he conceded unhappily, "what's the second option?"

For a long moment, she didn't answer. She just sat there, scratching Rex's ears, never taking her eyes off him.

At last, she said, "You can help me take over New Vegas."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Yup, I wrote it, finished it, and posted it all at once. Miracle, ain't it? Short and sweet.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own.**

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The view of the dimming New Vegas horizon was incredibly satisfying from atop the Lucky 38.

The Legion hadn't stood a chance against an army of Mark II Securitrons, and the ones who survived the battle were dispersed. Without Caesar or his higher officers to keep them together, the eighty-six unified tribes crumpled and broke apart. Many resettled in the Wasteland. The majority of them scattered to land east of the Mojave. The old tribes began reforming again, this time planting roots in the desert. Benny couldn't care less; if anything, more tribes meant more people. More people meant more trade, and trade meant wealth. Eventually, that wealth would trickle into the Strip from the pockets of gamblers and those who were drawn in by the promise of luxury.

It meant he had no qualms about removing the New California Republic. When they tried to throw their weight around, Pussycat threatened to have General Oliver thrown from the Dam. Yes-Man, that classic sycophant, was all for it. Benny wouldn't have particularly minded the show, but he had hoped that they could have resolved the discussion of the NCR's relocation peacefully. Nevertheless, the General quickly backtracked, and Benny got his way: The NCR's military strongholds within the Mojave were bust.

Still, Benny wouldn't soon forget the General's parting words.

_Think you got the guts to carve out a frontier? Build towns, protect the roads, run supplies, train troops?_

Benny was fairly sure he did. He already had the cunning and the cojones to remove House, whose set-up had been pretty fucking impenetrable. Towns built themselves. People carried their own. If something needed to be done, there was always someone who cared enough to do it, because there was a living to be made off of it. In short, Benny thought Vegas could pretty much take care of itself. You didn't get by in the wasteland by being soft. The Mojave and its people didn't need no mollycoddling. Where was the fun of independence if you had someone holding your hand every step of the way?

But it was Pussycat who answered for him: "Yes."

There had been moments where Benny, in the back of his mind, considered putting another bullet or three in her skull. A strong part of him, the same part that had helped him make chief almost eight years ago, didn't want to share New Vegas. But by that point, he realized he'd found someone he didn't mind sharing with. He wanted to see New Vegas swing, and it seemed inevitable that she would be a part of it. Everything he wanted was still possible with her in the picture—more, even. She wasn't an obstacle. There would be no fighting for control, no power struggle to tear his beloved city apart: she would challenge him in other ways, but when it came to his ultimate goal, she gave him what he wanted. As long as she stuck by his side, he was keeping her there.

He had considered throwing out the Omertas and giving the White Hats the boot, and it was incredibly tempting to replace them with his own people, but caution stayed his hand. He might compete bitterly with them for business, but they offered unique services that brought in people from far and wide to the Strip. The Tops had the best acts around, but they couldn't compete with the food at the Ultra-Luxe, and they didn't specialize in strippers like Gomorrah. If he gutted them, he'd be gutting a vital part of his shining New Vegas. The Strip wasn't just about gambling; it needed panache, and variety was the spice of life.

Besides, he owned the Lucky 38 now. He could afford to be generous. They had twice the digs, and more caps than they knew what to do with. House had been filthy rich, and now it all belonged to him.

By keeping centralized control of New Vegas, and sending Pussycat out to visit towns she had formed connections with in the six months she had traveled independently, he had managed to avoid the anarchy and chaos that would have otherwise ruined his vision of a New Vegas. He maintained order on the Strip, and she persuaded—how, precisely, he neither knew nor cared—the various civilizations scattered along the Mojave to go along with his scheme. For one reason or another they obeyed, falling into line one after another like dominos. It was perfect.

Which brought him to this moment, this grand midnight finale, where the Strip was celebrating its newly-declared independence. He heard the elevator ding, and casually turned his head to look. Pussycat stepped out. Five-foot-seven of walking death and destruction in a the tightest little red dress he'd ever seen, she had removed every last inch of the Wasteland from her body and gave the illusion that she had finally been tamed. Benny knew better; under those heavy-lidded eyes and cherry lips, she was still his wildcat. He knew that in a week, she would be out again, stalking through fiend territory with nothing but a rifle and a machete and poking through abandoned mines. But then she would come back and scratch new welts into his back. She always did.

He crooked two fingers at her, and she crossed the distance between them. In one fluid motion, she moved to sit on his lap, tucking her cheek against his neck.

"Watch this," Benny whispered.

The streets were brightly lit with whatever could be found: old neon signs, lamps, and torches dominated the streets. Tables had been set up with gourmet food, a dozen poker and blackjack tables were strategically placed, and the center of the street was cleared for dancing. The place was packed with patrons. It wasn't exactly what Benny would call an alliance, when he knew every one of the three families would be giving each other the stink-eye, but he would definitely call it swinging. A few Securitrons could be seen patrolling the perimeter, but they were off in the shadows, only visible by the white light of their screens.

If one looked closely, they might vaguely make out a lone cyber-dog playing Poker at one of the tables.

Benny thought it was beautiful.

He turned his head to whisper into her ear: "Like what you see?"

She lifted her head and smiled, locking eyes with him. In the months that had followed their fledgling partnership, her habits hadn't changed. She still refused to answer rhetorical questions, preferred to stare you down instead of speak, and still dug her nails into whatever she could get her hands on when fucking him senseless. But he'd learned to read her better than anyone, and he knew that to her, this was another question with an obvious answer.

Sometimes, things go your way, but still don't happen like you think they should. It was moments like these that made Benny grateful that things had not all gone according to plan. You gambled, you rigged the odds, and you measured the stacks—but sometimes, you just have to throw a wildcard in and see what happens.

He kissed her forehead, right over the scar left behind by his bullet. "I just want to hear you say it, Pussycat."

"It's…"

"It's what, Pussycat?"

She smiled at him.

"It's New Vegas," she said. "Our New Vegas."


End file.
